Page 59 of Bad Words

I shut my laptop, realizing that, in the twenty minutes since she’d sent me that article, my systems had settled. The thoughts of my family still roiled, but less violently, and as I studied the miniature Christmas tree that Arthur and I had shoehorned into the corner beside the TV, I began to think of the week ahead with something other than misery.

I’d never actually been in New York at Christmas before.

The idea of a full Christmas Day unbound from my family’s requirements was a little overwhelming. I could watch a Christmas movie without knowing Justin would mimic every schmaltzy line and Elena would talk through it with her girlfriend and Kevin would take every criticism personally. I could cook something without Christi adjusting my heat settings.

Another text came through, this time from Arthur: Bro. I just realized. Did you get stranded?

Yeah, haha, I said.

Oh shit.

No, it’s okay!

His ellipsis blinked for a long time. Then he said, If you need company I can fly back early. There’ll probably be flights in a day or two right? Just say the word

An embarrassed heat crept up my neck. It was true that I didn’t, historically, do well with aloneness—the breaks I’d spent alone at Yale hadn’t gone well for me—but I hated feeling like this, like something clinging to Arthur’s ankle while he tried to live his life of cheerful independence, as though I were always one emotional trigger from dissolving into a puddle of need.

Hey, definitely don’t change your vacation plans! I said. I’m actually looking forward to spending the holiday in New York this year. It’ll be relaxing.

I felt a pang of guilt as I pressed Send. I stood, restless, needing to do something with my hands. I put on “Christmas in Our Hearts” over my speakers, unpacked my suitcase, and lined my family’s presents on my dresser to ship after the New Year. Soon milk was simmering on the stove for cocoa and the Christmas tree lights were reflecting against the windowpane. I made myself sit down. I told myself, enjoy this.

I woke up early on Christmas morning, sunbeams trailing in through windowpanes swirled with frost.

There was nowhere to be. Nobody to handle.

Whole minutes elapsed. My pulse grew slow and even.

I turned over and went back to sleep.

Seven faces just about fit into the frame of the video call, although the camera was juddering in that characteristic way that meant somebody had put our mother in charge.

“Mom,” said Christi’s voice, sharp and high like the chime of a crystal bell, “if you turn it like that, it’s going to—”

The camera switched to profile view.

“Oh no,” said my mom. “Make it go back. Make it— Baby, can you fix—?”

“Yeah, here.” Elena sighed. “Mom, let go. Just—”

“What if we use my iPad? It’s newer,” said Kevin.

“I’m Kevin, and I buy everything Apple shoves into my face,” said Justin.

“Shut up, greentext,” said Kevin.

Elena must have wrested the iPad out of our mother’s grip and set it on a stable surface, because the nauseating blur resolved into a spread of familiar faces. Kevin and Justin were elbowing each other in one corner of the screen, Justin half a foot taller, his shaved head gleaming under the electric chandelier; Kevin was sporting a patchy mustache that looked like someone had pressed an inky thumbprint above each corner of his mouth. Elena, in a blue sequined dress, was whispering something to Christi, who had her kids grouped before her, arms linked protectively around their shoulders. “What do we say?” Christi said in that insinuating parental way.

“Merry Christmas, Tito,” Jenna and Manuel chorused, with the flat affect of a five- and seven-year-old who had much better places to be.

And in the center of the image was my mother, silver currents running through her black hair, forehead sunspotted, her head lowered to look into the camera as though she were peering through a magnifying glass. “There you are! We miss you so much, Pijay.”

I felt a rush of affection. “You too, Mom. How was mass last night? And gifts? Dinner?”

“Beautiful. Baby made enough food to feed the block.” She pinched Elena’s arm. “And Katy, and Katy,” she added hastily when Elena opened her mouth. “Did your book thing go well, Pijay? Your reading?”

I considered telling her it wasn’t a reading, but that seemed pedantic. “Yes, yeah, went really well.”

“It wasn’t a reading, Mom,” said Christi, “it was a conversation with another author. One of Parker’s favorites.”